Reaching out from itself it sits square
In the brisk dusk of a bus station
Waiting for a number 44 or a 45.
I keep remembering like an elephant
Outside its stomping ground
Watching the lovers reminisce
Wondering why they feel connections
Until even they disappear and all that’s
rung through the windgap
trees airchime loud as ear held seashell
even after the tide raged
Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.
We see, we see as he hails a strange bird
In joyful abandon, we hear every word
From broad, distant sphere she falls ever nearer
And into the soul of this brave poet seer
We hear his heart pound as she falls to the ground
And swims in the fountain of kisses and sound
Caught in this moment of bliss and beyond
We hear his sweet Skylark, we hear her sweet song.
Summer straddles years
Old Winter dies inside
Spring brings in the carolers
Fall’s leaves drop and rise.
Words war on the plains above
Mute as dots on snow
Translated not for earthly love
But strange and distant show.
Perched on tiptoes, filled to the brim,
Then, just in time, the drawing in
Of milky heat and daylight din,
The birches, like old urns, displayed
The awful truth, cracked and crazed,
Of beauty to poem to memory made.
Is compassion wedded to memory? In a tangle of synthetic I hold on to the flashes of static when it’s too hot for layers and wonder if solitude is not the nurtured child of forgetfulness and pride. Sometimes I need a jolt just to make nerves meet and remember.
Frost crept inside the mind
Of a desperate young man
Who craved some response
And over. And under. And moves
But this numb-fear battle-ox.
For the buckeye the winds create less havoc.
The birds are lifted out of harm’s way.
Look, most of it will mend.
Listen to the whisperer
Who keeps a quiet vigil
Still loves you.
But the dog whistlers
Farm us into submission
alarm and raise our heckles
Til we crave our own blood
And weep with the taste of it.
Wolves we are in the whispering woods
Our guts quietly spilling
Through to the roots
We hear only the distant whistle
fear and crave its blood promise.